


Broken Toy Soldier

by thequeergiraffe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF!John, Dubious Consent, M/M, Monarch mind control, Multi, Post-Reichenbach, Rough Sex, There's plot ahead...but a lot of it is gross, Weird Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 00:23:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What're you thinking about, soldier?" Seb drawled, reaching up and tweaking John's nose.</p><p>An odd heat started to spread across John's chest. Seb's weight in his lap, his bright eyes searching John's face and his hand (rough fingers, but slender, long) now cupping John's cheek…</p><p>"I'm thinking," John said, his voice a touch hoarse, "that we should stop this bloody cab for a minute."<br/>---------------------------------------------------------<br/>In a world without Sherlock, John does what he must to move on. And Sebastian Moran is more than willing to help John along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Caution: spoilers in comments.
> 
> (WARNING: This fic is a total war-zone. I'm in the process of beta/revision but dear God does the final sequence of this story need some work. My lovely britpicker, verymoderate, has already done her magic on this, but I won't be posting her changes until I'm ready to post my own. So yeah: caveat ...uh... "reader". Fuck, my Latin is awful.)

_War is hell, but that’s not the half of it, because war is also mystery and terror and_ _adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love._   _War is nasty; war is fun. War is thrilling; war is drudgery. War makes you a man; war makes you_ _dead._

_Tim O'Brien, "How To Tell A True War Story"_

_  
_

x

The first time John saw the ghost of Sherlock Holmes, he was walking to the grocer's. It was brisk and he had his jacket zipped up to his chin, one hand stuffed in his pocket and the other tightly clutching a half-dozen reusable shopping bags (not because he was particularly environmentally-conscious, but because the grocer in his partly-gentrified new neighborhood gave a one percent discount when he used them).

He wasn't really looking at anything in particular, just scanning the crowd as he always did- a soldier's old habits run deep- when he saw him. Sherlock.

John stopped still, the bags falling from his hand. His voice seemed caught in his throat, which was suddenly raw and tight. The clothes were different (new coat- of course, because John had Sherlock's old coat in a box in his closet, still stiff with blood- and a new violet muffler that reminded John of Sherlock's old favorite shirt) and his hair was shorter…but those cheekbones, those lanky limbs…

_Sherlock._

Trembling, John took a step forward, but it was too late. The man, apparition, whatever he was, was climbing into a cab, his eyes narrowed. The door slammed just as John got enough sense to call out Sherlock's name.

x

John sat on the edge of his bed (he never did get those groceries, but somehow an hour had passed since he'd left) and stared at his phone. He had a blank text open, and he absolutely dreaded writing the words that were running through his mind.

_Hey, Mycroft. Been awhile. Seen your brother lately?_

Ridiculous. Sherlock was dead, and someone else happened to have the audacity to almost look like him in the street. No big deal. Certainly not worth reopening communications with the eldest ( _only_ ) Holmes.

So why did it feel like John couldn't catch his breath?

He closed the text and opened a new one.  _Busy?_

It was less than a minute before he got a response:  _Just finished with your mum, so no._  John smiled a little at that and tapped out:  _Bastard. Meet me at the pub?_

His phone trilled almost instantly.  _One hour. See you there._

x

John had started drinking without him (he didn't like relying on alcohol to sooth his nerves, but for this, for Sherlock's doppelganger turning up in his neighborhood, he allowed himself an exception) but Seb didn't seem to mind. He slipped into the seat next to John, one eyebrow raised, and grinned.

"Look like you've seen a ghost, mate," he smiled, nodding at the bartender. Sometimes he looked so much like Sherlock, Seb did, with those same bright eyes and haughty features. In every other regard they were polar opposites: Seb was always tan, his sandy blond hair cropped short, his hands rough from the desert and from hard labour. But whenever Seb gave him this look- inquisitive, intense, as though he were worth examination- John couldn't help but see the echo of his lost friend in his face.

Aware that his rejoining laugh was a touch hysterical, John wiped a hand down his face and sighed: "I think I have."

"Sherlock?" To John's questioning glance, Seb explained, "You wouldn't look like that if it was anyone else."

John gave a tight smile to the bartender and slammed back his third whiskey of the night. "Yeah," he said softly, his eyes on his hands. "Yeah. God, he looked like Sherlock."

Seb patted John's back. His voice was soothing as he murmured, "Tell me. It's okay. Tell me what you saw."

x

John was reasonably sure he'd never been so pissed in his life. He and Seb leaned on each other, partly because neither of them could stop laughing (there had been a joke told, ages ago, but John had already forgotten everything about it except that it was damn funny) and partly because they were both too drunk to stand unsupported.

"Mr. Moran," John slurred between giggles, "would you do me the honor of hailing me a cab? I'm not sure," he stumbled, nearly fell, straightened up, "I'm not sure I can manage."

Seb groaned and half-dragged John out to the quiet street. It was a long time before even one cab drove past, and Seb pulled John in it after him, mumbling, "Not waiting all night by m'self. We can share."

"We live in opposite directions, you idiot," John laughed, and Seb doubled over, his head between his knees, laughing so hard that he was only silently shaking.

"God, we do!" he gasped, sitting up and falling into John's shoulder with an "oomph".

This was nice. It was always nice, though, having Seb around. He'd met Sebastian at some stupid veteran's get-together a few months after Sherlock died, which John had only attended at the insistence of Ella, his therapist. John knew it was going to be a waste of time and he absolutely dreaded sitting there, alone, at some crowded little veteran's pub, listening to old timers ramble about the war, the war, never specifying  _which_ war because what did it matter? War was war.

Instead he found Seb, and they made fast friends. Sebastian was a private bodyguard for someone both important and extremely secretive (Seb wasn't allowed to mention his name, not even to John, who considered himself decidedly unimportant) so he was out of town quite a bit, but whenever he was in London, he made sure to get together with John, and it helped. It took a long time after Sherlock's death to normalize, but Seb was a big part of that. He made him feel less alone.

The cab hit a bump and Seb toppled over, his head landing in John's lap and his arms waving wildly. He brought his hands to his face and wiped at the tears he'd cried laughing, and John put his head back and laughed out, too. When he settled, he looked down at Seb. There was that intense gaze again, muddied only slightly by the fact that his poor friend was well past gone.

"What're you thinking about, soldier?" Seb drawled, reaching up and tweaking John's nose.

An odd heat started to spread across John's chest. Seb's weight in his lap, his bright eyes searching John's face and his hand (rough fingers, but slender, long) now cupping John's cheek…

"I'm thinking," John said, his voice a touch hoarse, "that we should stop this bloody cab for a minute."

x

Seb pushed John up against an alley wall, taking John's crossed wrists in one hand and lifting them over his head. Groaning, John shifted his hips and allowed himself to be lifted a little, standing on the balls of his feet as he tipped his mouth up to Seb's. It was strange; he'd never kissed a man before, but the motions of it all seemed to come to him naturally. It wasn't weird at all to let Seb take the lead, to feel the scruff of Seb's shadowed face trail down his throat. Maybe it was because it had been so long since anyone had touched him that way, or maybe it was just the simple fact that he was drunk and horny. Seb slid his hand down John's stomach. When his hand met John's cock (already impossibly hard and undoubtedly leaving a little wet spot on his trousers) John squeezed his eyes shut and whispered, "Oh God,  _Sherlock_."

The mistake hung between them for a moment. Seb took a step back, panting, his eyes wild, and John scrubbed at his flushed face with one trembling hand. "Shit. Seb, I didn't-. I'm sorry. I didn't-"

Closing the distance between them, Seb pressed his lips to John's ear and hissed: "Pretend I'm him."

John's legs wavered beneath him. "What?"

"Pretend. Pretend I'm Sherlock. Fuck me like I'm Sherlock." Seb's voice was raspy and deep. He scratched his nails up John's chest and growled, "You're angry; good. I want it. I want you to fuck me like you hate me."

"Seb-"

Sebastian shook his head. "Sherlock. I'm Sherlock, and I left you all alone. I left you, John, and I ruined you." He kissed John deeply and groaned against his mouth: "Ruin me. Ruin me like I ruined you."

That did it. John found that he  _was_ angry, furious even, as he turned grabbed Seb and pressed him face-first into the wall, tugging the taller man's shirt from his trousers. He undid his own belt with a grunt and roughly spat, "Bend. Now."

Seb obeyed with a shaking little whimper, undoing his own belt and letting his trousers fall down around his ankles. John took hold of Seb's hips, unsure for the first time that night of what to do next. He was distantly aware that he couldn't just thrust his way in there, that he had to do something-

"Spit on your hand," Seb commanded, and John followed orders admirably before taking his hand and sliding it in the cleft of Seb's bare arse. Seb gave another little whimper and turned his head around, looking at John over his shoulder. His eyes were hooded and his voice was shaking as he panted: "Good, yes, now  _hurt me_."

In mere seconds, John was buried to the hilt, Seb's thighs hitting his with a series of resounding smacks. "Sherlock,  _Sherlock,_ " he gasped, pressing his face into Seb's spine and digging his nails into his hips. Seb pushed back against him, groaning and mumbling, "Yes, yes, hurt me, yes," like a chant. Dimly John realized that they were right in the middle of an alley, and that anyone could walk past and see them, but then Seb was gasping, "Tell me you hate me," and John was growling, "I hate you, I hate you,  _oh God_ , I  _hate_  you," and it was all over almost as soon as it had begun. John slipped away from Seb and fell back against the wall, pressing his cheek to the cool brick and struggling to get his breath under control. Whether Seb had finished he didn't know or care, but it seemed like the other man was struggling too, still bent and with his hands pressed to the wall. After a long moment he straightened and pulled up his trousers, falling beside John and doing up his zip. They leaned there, listening to one another's gasping breaths, until John whispered, "You never met him."

"What?" Seb sounded weak, exhausted.

"You never met him. Sherlock." He licked his lips and let his eyes fall closed, his heart still thumping wildly in his chest. "But you're angry, too. Hell, you might even hate him." That much seemed clear, and Seb didn't try to deny it. Looking at Seb sideways (his eyelids drooping and his skin cool with sweat) John asked: "Why?"

Sebastian swallowed, straightening his shirtfront with shaking fingers. His voice was soft but full of venom when he answered, "He broke something of  _mine_."


	2. Chapter 2

John woke up with a splitting headache and a sore… _everything_ , actually. It felt like he'd been beaten and then run over and left for dead. Memories of the previous night swam up through his hangover slowly and in the wrong order: He and Seb laughing together in the backseat of a cab, Seb leaning on his shoulder; Seb slipping a few pounds under an empty glass; John drinking alone, grimacing at his whiskey and trying to forget why he was there; Seb leaning against the wall in the alley way, his eyes closed and his clothes rumpled; Sherlock's ghost, narrow-eyed and climbing into a bland black cab; Seb bent over and groaning—

A wave of nausea rolled through him at that last image. "Oh, what have I done?" he breathed, putting his hands over his eyes. His best friend, his  _only_ friend…

A tiny tri-tone trill sounded from John's beside table. He rolled over—with effort—and picked up his phone, dreading seeing Sebastian's name in his inbox.

It was Sebastian that had texted him, but the message was surprising:  _Just woke up. Pretty sure I got hit with a car at some point last night. Speaking of, we're good, right? I hope you're not daft enough to think any of that was serious, ya cunt._

Despite himself, John laughed and wrote back:  _All right if you are, you rotten minge._ One of the rules of texting Sebastian was that one always needed to use creative cursing. He added:  _Pretty sure the same car that hit you hit me as well, btw._

He was brushing his teeth when Seb texted him again.  _Yeah, I'd say the pub is right out tonight. 'Hair of the dog' my arse. Need something greasy to cure this. Dinner?_

John was considering this with sweaty palms when Seb sent his next text:  _It's not a date, you git. Be at that pizza place down the road from your flat in twenty or I'm officially crossing you off my Christmas card list._

Once again John found himself laughing and shaking his head. Where would he be without Sebastian keeping his sense of humor about him?  _Half three_ , he wrote back, smiling.  _I need a shower._

 _Not a date, Romeo,_ came the reply.  _Twenty minutes._

x

It was a little uncomfortable at first, seeing each other after that. They joked more than usual (which was saying something) and cursed every other word. The only acceptable topics for conversation were of the manliest variety: women (and the various ways they'd give them a shagging), sports (which was a little harder, since Seb was a big rugby fan and John only followed footy, and just barely at that), and war (which was easy, both of them being vets, and what they always fell back on in an awkward silence). They drank together still, but carefully, each of them obviously nursing their way through one pint, two, before making some excuse to head home (in decidedly separate cabs).

Eventually the awkwardness was mostly smoothed over, and the only times John ever even considered that night were when something in Sebastian's inflection or expression reminded him of the way Seb had growled, "He broke something of _mine_." John didn't even want to think about what those words meant so he never brought it up, but that didn't stop it from drifting into his mind now and again. Mostly, though, it seemed like things had gone back to normal between them within a few short weeks, and John was thankful for that.

x

He had every intention of going to Harry's for Christmas- was actually on the way to the bus station, with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder- when Harry sent him an error-ridden text insisting that something had come up and he'd better not come round. Angry at having wasted his time, and finding himself nearer Seb's neighborhood than his own, he quickly typed:  _Home?_

 _Just got in,_ Seb responded as John settled down on a bench.  _Apparently I get Christmas off this year. Thank God, what would all my friends and family do without me?_

John snorted. So far as he knew, Seb didn't speak to his family. And although Seb did mention various acquaintances, John had never met anyone he'd call a friend of Seb's in the three years he knew him.  _Harry's gone off the wagon, so that's my Christmas shot._ He tried not to think of the old friends who'd like to hear from him, of Lestrade and Molly and Mrs. Hudson, as he added:  _Worst of it is that I'm about three blocks from the station. Yeah, she JUST canceled._

It was ten minutes before he got a response, but the answer he got made him grin.  _3 blocks from the station is 5 blocks from my flat, which means you're in luck Johnny boy. Brought home some duty-free Puerto Rican rum, pretty sure I can muster up some ham sandwiches or something. A proper Christmas feast!_

x

It didn't surprise John at all, really, that he found himself much less sober than he'd intended. Christmas dinner had turned out to be just slices of ham, actually, because Seb couldn't be arsed to buy bread before he left and all the shops were closed.

"A toast," Seb cried, raising his shot glass drunkenly.

John raised his, as well, blinking away the bleariness as best he could.

"To our wits." Tapping his glass once on the table, Seb downed his rum. John followed suit with a cough and a wince, and Seb chuckled.

John's head was swimming. He laid it down on the cool table, letting his eyes fall closed, but slowly became aware that Sebastian was staring at him with abnormal focus. "Whaa?" he mumbled, glaring up at him.

Seb grinned and spread his hands out in front of him innocently. "Just thinking."

"What about?"

"A topic which we've unanimously decided to ignore," he said, his voice both teasing and nervous.

John sat up a bit. "And?"

"And  _nothing_." Seb pushed away from the table and made it as far as the kitchen doorway before slinking back down, his back pressed up against the frame.

"No, no." John stood and wobbled over, sliding down in front of Seb, his own back on the other side of the frame. "Tell me."

Their legs had already become tangled, and Seb smirked at them before looking, hazily, at John's eyes. "I was wondering if you'd ever buggered a man before. I mean, before me."

John would've laughed if he was sober. Instead he gave a small and thoughtful: "No. Never." Licking his lips, he asked (in the same small voice), "You ever…well. Ever done that before?"

Seb's lips curled up into an almost rueful smile. "No." He considered their legs for a moment before giving a grunt and muttering, "Felt good, though."

That strange rush of heat spread across John's belly again. He swallowed and looked levelly at Seb, trying to decide if he was playing at something or not. Smirking a bit, Seb sat forward and met his gaze. "Your go, soldier," he whispered, and that was enough.


	3. Chapter 3

Things were a bit hazy. John knew he was at Seb's, although he couldn't remember falling out on the floor, nor was he entirely sure why his hands were bound behind his back (and his arms stiff from being held in such an awkward position for God knew how long) and his clothes conspicuously spread over the kitchen. He sat up slowly, groggily, and surveyed the room. The table was tipped over, Seb curled- naked as well, with long red scratches standing out against the skin of his back- between the table and the rubbish bin, his face towards the wall. There were a series of bruises on Seb's hips that looked like fingerprints, and John's belt was loosely looped around one of his ankles.

John blinked and licked his lips, not entirely surprised to taste a faint trace of blood there. He felt as bad as Seb looked, as though someone had come in and given them both a good beating. But John knew who they culprits were.  _They_ were.  _They_ had done this to each other, for some godawful reason.

It wasn't very hard to work his way out of the rope around his wrists, thankfully, and he rubbed them gingerly once they were freed. He needed to find the lav, survey the damage. He was pretty sure, from the feel of it, that Seb had punched him in the jaw at some point, and tonguing the inside of his cheek made him wince horribly. He stumbled a little but finally worked his way up from the floor and eased himself down the hallway, relying on the wall to keep him upright.

Seb's flat was nice, much nicer than John's, but John had assumed it was only one room until he popped open what he thought was the door for the loo and discovered a small spare bedroom. It was lined with shelves (the shelves stacked neatly with guns, scopes, and ammo) and in one corner stood a small bureau. John swallowed down the strange feeling in his throat as he examined the various assault rifles, handguns, pistols, and shotguns peppering the room. There were thousands of dollars worth of ammo there, enough to that John gave a low whistle as he ran his fingers over the boxes. Cases, gun socks, cleaning kits. Sebastian had a small arsenal, and he took good care of it.

John opened the bureau carefully, mindful of the fact that he probably shouldn't, and glanced at its contents. Suits, a few pressed shirts. None of it looked like the right size for Seb; his arms were too long and his chest too wide for the shirts, and no way were those trousers going to reach his ankles. Why would Seb have someone else's suits in his spare room? He reached out and ran his index finger down the lapel of the nearest suit jacket, stirring up a smell that was oddly familiar. It was cologne, expensive he imagined, but something about it made him think of chlorine.

"Lost?"

His hand leapt from the jacket and he spun, suddenly aware of the fact that he was completely nude, covered in welts and scratches, and snooping through his best friend's personal belongings in the middle of the night. John felt his face flush horribly as he stammered, "S-sorry, I was looking for the-"

"Loo's down the hall." Seb was smirking, his arms crossed. He gestured with his finger towards John's face. "That's going to be one hell of a bruise, mate."

x

Sex became a normal thing, if only in frequency. (John didn't imagine there was anything normal about what they did, which was exceedingly more violent and strange than what he was used to doing by far.) They almost always fucked at Seb's flat, namely because it was nicer but also because it was a little closer to their favourite pub. Everything else about their relationship stayed the same (certainly they weren't  _dating_ ) and on nights that they had a bit of fun, John always left as soon as it was over (or whenever he regained consciousness, if that were the case).

This was still true in late January, when John found himself limping out of the lift and into the street in front of Seb's building one gray dawn. Seb had just come back to London the night previous after having been out of town for two weeks, and they'd given each other hell for it. His left eye was already swelling over (he told people he was an amateur boxer, and in a sense that was true) and he could feel the burn of several shallow gashes on his shoulders. The limp, he suspected, was from an altogether more personal source.

Sighing, he hobbled down the sidewalk and out towards the main street, hoping to hail a cab. (It was a testament to their friendship that John didn't take offence when Seb slipped him fare in the morning.)

In the state he was in, however, it became clear he was just going to have to take the Tube.

The second time John saw the ghost of Sherlock Holmes, he had just made his way home from the Tube station and could barely see fit to stand. He unlocked his front door with shaking fingers, pushed his way into the flat, and clicked on the light with an exhausted groan.

Perched on the arm of John's battered, secondhand sofa was Sherlock, his hands folded together in his lap. "John," he said, and then the world went a bit gray at the edges before turning all white.

x

He woke up, his vision filled with Sherlock's eyes- those nonsense eyes with their unimaginable colors, all dark with worry and focused on him as sharply as lasers. "You fell into a faint," Sherlock said, and John moved his focus to his lips. How could a man's lips be so full and soft looking? He wanted to reach up and brush his thumb across that preposterous bottom lip, to feel the curves of his arched upper lip.  _Sherlock._  Not noticing, or not caring, that John's focus had slipped, Sherlock continued, "It's little wonder, considering how badly you've been beaten." He huffed a little, and the movement made John realize that his head was lying in Sherlock's lap.

"You're dead," he said simply, his voice raspy.

"Clearly I'm not," Sherlock responded. His long, pale fingers ran along the swollen flesh of John's cheek, making him wince. "It's no longer best for your safety for you to believe me dead. Just the opposite, in fact. You're in more danger alone than you are with me."

"I knew." John smiled, even though it hurt. "I knew. I saw you, a few months ago, and I  _knew_ it was you."

Sherlock returned the smile, though there was something a little sad in his. "Yes. That's true. And that's why  _this_ ," he gestured to John's face, his arms, "is my fault. I've pushed him into action. How did you escape?"

John's eyebrows pulled together. "Escape?"

"Yes, from Moran. You must have-" Sherlock's gaze wandered from John's face to his neck and the obvious bite-marks there. "Oh."

"Sherlock-"

"No, no, this makes sense." He stood abruptly, letting John's head slide out of his lap and on to the floor, and began to pace. "Take you on as a lover, and-. Yes. Of course! Very clever."

John struggled to sit up, his head spinning. "What are you talking about? How do you know Seb?"

Sherlock laughed and clapped his hands together, but his eyes were blazing. " _Seb_. How did I miss that? Curse that bastard Mycroft. I'm loathe to say he was right, but-"

"Mycroft knows you're alive?"

"Of course." Sherlock looked down at John with that  _isn't it obvious?_  expression on his face. "Faking one's death is a rather detailed and expensive little expenditure, and it didn't exactly  _help_ that your blog had elevated me to the status of near celebrity-"

"Is this real?" John rubbed carefully at his swollen eyes. "Is this really happening, or have I gone mad?"

Sherlock crouched and looked into John's eyes, lifting the eyelids one after the other. He turned his head this way and that, and then sighed, "Water, then bed. When you're hydrated and rested, I'll explain as much as I can make you understand." Gently, he helped John to his feet and led him to the kitchen, where he stood- with arms crossed, and toes tapping- and watched John drink three glasses of water from the sink. Then he slipped an arm around John's waist and took him to his room.

John watched with almost clinical detachment as Sherlock stripped him down to his pants, those eyes more narrow then ever and taking in every detail of John's roughly-used body. His lips were pursed as he eased John carefully into bed, tucking the blankets in around him.

"Sherlock," John whispered. "Wait."

Sherlock's hand was poised near the lamp, but he paused and regarded John with astonishing patience. "Sleep, John. Then we'll talk."

"You'll still be here?"

A hint of a smile graced Sherlock's lips. "Yes. I won't leave."

John's eyes were starting to drift closed of their own accord. He  _was_ exhausted, if he was honest, and still a touch dizzy from drinking Seb's entire wine collection. "If you leave me again…" he began, but sleep overtook him before he could finish the threat.


	4. Chapter 4

The room glowed orange beyond John's eyelids, bright sunlight pouring through the open curtains. He stretched (and hissed, because the stretching hurt) and blinked, trying to clear his head of a strange and half-remember dream.

There was someone else's weight in his bed, and he turned slowly, his eye (he wasn't going to get the left one to open more than a crack, it seemed) struggling to focus.

Sherlock was lying there beside him, his shirtsleeves pushed up and his legs daintily crossed. He had a book in his hands- one of John's old medical books, the pages shiny with yellow highlighter ink- and was reading quickly, his eyes flitting down the page.

John's heart thrummed dangerously. Not a dream. This was Sherlock, all right, same impossible cheekbones, same slim fingers, same uneasy elegance, like a snake poised to strike at any time. He  _had_ cut his hair (it suited him) and he'd lost weight (that suited him less, and made his veins protrude a little too much in his arms). But otherwise, it was as if he'd stepped out of John's memories and landed neatly, with an annoyed frown, in John's bed.

"Do you need to eat?" Sherlock asked without looking up. He turned a page.

If John had ever had a voice (and suddenly he wasn't sure of anything at all, not even that), he'd lost it. The only noise that left him was a strangled sort of gasp.

Sherlock's eyes lifted skyward for only a second, and then he set the book down and slipped out of bed, straightening his shirt with one smooth motion. "Wait here. I'll bring you something."

"Don't!" There was his voice, after all. John sat straight up and clutched Sherlock's arm, his stomach doing flips. "Don't leave me."

For a drawn-out moment, Sherlock only looked at John's face, his eyes appraising. Then he gave a small nod and sat back down slowly, pushing the book to the floor. John didn't let go of his arm but instead laid his face against it, feeling the beat of Sherlock's heart against his cheek. His pulse. The same pulse he'd tried to find years ago, the one that wasn't there. He realized he was crying only when Sherlock's other hand drifted to his face and neatly wiped the tears from his undamaged cheek. "I didn't think this would affect you so strongly," Sherlock whispered, letting his hand fall to John's hair. "Your physical state certainly isn't helping."

"It's not that bad," John sighed into Sherlock's warm skin, running his finger along Sherlock's wrist.  _It could be so much worse_ , he thought.  _It_ has  _been so much worse._

Sherlock snorted. "Regardless, will you be able to stay lucid enough for me to explain?"

"Mm." John shifted a little, pulling Sherlock closer to him. It wasn't the sort of thing he would have done before…but this wasn't  _before_ , this was  _now_  and John didn't care if it made the bastard uncomfortable or not, he wasn't letting go of him.

But if Sherlock was uncomfortable, he didn't seem it. He spoke slowly, softly, his voice more gentle than John had ever heard it. "Three assassins," he whispered. "Three victims. Moriarty at the center of it. I couldn't tell you, because you were one of them. The last one." He began to smooth John's hair. "I found the first assassin very easily. You see, I'd seen him before. On Baker Street. So Mrs. Hudson was safe almost immediately. The second assassin took a little more work. I tracked him for months; found him in Paris. He was hiding out with his mistress, who- like a fool- protected his secret quite cunningly. When I found him, he was tied up with a note in French around his neck. Translated, roughly, it said 'The man is married, and now I'm free of him. I hope you kill him slowly'." There was smile in Sherlock's voice at that, but it drifted away as he went on: "That was Lestrade's assassin. Mycroft's people took him, God knows where, and I knew Lestrade was safe. But there was still one. One more gunman, and I didn't have a single lead on him."

"You knew you'd find him eventually," John mumbled.

"Of course. It was a matter of time; no one can hide forever." Sherlock shifted, ran his hand through his own hair, dropped it back to John's. "I went to India and spoke with Irene-"

John sat up, his one eye going wide. "Irene? The woman?"

There was an odd glint in Sherlock's eyes. "Yes,  _the_ woman."

"Right." John ran his hand down his face. "Because she's alive, as well."

"Ah, I'd forgotten…" Sherlock smiled and waved a dismissive hand. "Yes, she's quite well. Very alive. I wound up staying in India for some time. Her help was indispensible."

"Huh." John crossed his arms, aware that he looked fussy but not caring. "I've noticed. Seems like she did you a world of good, Irene did."

"Because  _Seb_ has done so much good for you." Sherlock fixed John with a daring look. "I spent my time in India interviewing Irene and doing research, not getting beat to a pulp by a psychotic murderer for the sheer pleasure of it."

"Piss off."

"If you'd like me to leave, I will."

John's hand tightened around Sherlock's wrist involuntarily, and he gave his head a small shake. Clearing his throat, Sherlock went on, "I interviewed Irene at length about her involvement with Moriarty. It took some work. She can be… _tiresome_. But at last I stumbled upon what seemed like a helpful tidbit: Moriarty had a lover. Irene didn't know his full name and she'd never seen him, but she knew that he often referred to him as 'Sebby'."

"No." John's whole body had gone rigid. "If you're implying-"

Sherlock hissed: "I don't  _imply_ , John, I  _deduce_. Don't interrupt now. Listen." His eyes were more intense then John had ever seen them. "Irene talked and I suspected, from things that Moriarty had said to her, that this 'Sebby' kept a flat somewhere in London. It wasn't much to be going on, but it was enough to make me come back. That was eight months ago. I did as much as I could- the homeless network was useless, Mycroft's people were useless, nothing of Moriarty's personal records revealed anything…one day I found myself on Baker Street and glanced up at our- at  _the_ flat and saw it was clearly unused. Deciding it was quite safe to do so, I broke in and waited for Mrs. Hudson."

"You could've given her a heart attack!"

"She was fine." Sherlock's eyebrows lifted, and there was a touch of humor in his voice when he said, "She didn't even faint."

John grimaced, but there was a hint of a smile at the corners of his lips. Sherlock went on: "I asked her if she'd heard from you, and I can see you're ashamed by her response. Not even an email in the last two years, John. Really." John opened his mouth, but Sherlock raised a hand and said: "This is where the story gets interesting. You won't want to interrupt now." He settled back against the headboard and steepled his fingers under his chin. "She didn't know your exact address- couldn't even call on you, poor Mrs. Hudson- but she had a vague idea of your whereabouts, and I thought it might be worthwhile to check on you. If you were already dead, for example, then I was tailing your would-be assassin for no real reason."

"Right," John laughed, "I'm sure that's why you wanted to check on me." Comprehension dawned across his face. " _Oh._  That's the day…the day I saw you."

Sherlock nodded. "I walked the neighborhood for awhile, not wanting to run into you but hoping I'd catch sight of you all the same. I didn't have any luck. But  _you_ did. And I knew it, that very night."

"How?"

"Because," Sherlock said, smiling smugly, "someone tried to kill me." To John's astonished face, he said, "I had been in London for nearly five months at that point, and hadn't been so much as mugged. Then I decide to go to your neighborhood for a little jaunt and not five hours later someone sneaks up on me and puts a knife to my throat." He waggled a finger, clearly pleased. "Someone, it seemed, was keeping an eye on John Watson. Or were they?" Now he was positively beaming. "No, I decided, that wasn't it at all. If the assassin was lurking about near your flat, waiting for me to turn up, why did he wait  _five hours_ and then send an amateur to try and finish me off? Clearly, the man was in no position to come after me himself. And even more clearly, someone else had seen me in your neighborhood. Someone who didn't think to track me, maybe because he didn't genuinely believe it could have  _been_  me. So. Who saw me? The most obvious answer was: you." Sherlock grinned a Chesire cat grin. "Now, that was interesting- namely because, if it was you that had seen me…how did the information get back to our friend 'Sebby'? I considered who you might talk to in such a situation. Obviously not Mycroft, or he would have mentioned it. Not Lestrade, because any professional inquiries would have been intercepted by me. Not Molly, not Stamford. Not Mrs. Hudson. Not poor, sodden Harry. So, who? A new friend, then. Ah." Sherlock leaned forward, his eyes shining with something that looked uncomfortably like joy. "The fun part. I searched your blog, but you hadn't updated and no one new was commenting. Broke into your therapist's only to discover you stopped going after she'd recommended you start attending veteran's events. Hmm. Coincidence? No."

"You broke into…" John let out a slow breath. "Okay. So, then what?"

"I was going to go through pages of registry and documentation, but on a whim I followed you one night when you went to the pub instead."

John leaned back, almost as if he could put some distance between himself and this new information. Sherlock noted his reaction, but he was too caught up in it now to stop: "I followed you to the pub, and I followed you back to his flat, and I followed you home. I noticed a routine and hacked the CCTV outside the pub one night while I waited outside your new friend's flat. Are you aware of his personnel?"

"Am I…" John shook his head slowly, exhaustion creeping back in. "His personnel? Of what sort? I know he has a cleaning lady."

Sherlock gave another wide grin. "Indeed. As well as several paid thugs and at least four…bodyguards, for lack of a better term. They never leave the flat. Well, almost never."

"I think I'd have noticed them by now, Sherlock," John sighed.

"Sure, if 'Sebby' was an idiot." Sherlock ran his thumb along his bottom lip, his eyes shifting focus. "Four guards, for one small flat, but the only time they leave is ten minutes before our man shows up with one John Watson. Another pattern. I watched several times to be sure of it, and yes: without fail, the guards would leave the flat and position themselves throughout the block, and moments later you and your new friend would leave the pub and hop a cab. He was clearly hiding this from you, and I wanted to know why. So the next time I prepared myself, and when the guards were dismissed, I snuck in."

John sucked in a breath. "You…you broke into Seb's flat?"

"Of course." Sherlock began to tap his fingers on the mattress. "I had to see, didn't I? I checked his mail first. Nothing out of the ordinary, but the name was important. Sebastian Moran. I hope it doesn't ruin the story if I jump ahead and tell you I researched him once I got back to the manor. War vet, dishonourable discharge, all very fascinating stuff."

"You've been  _staying_ with Mycroft?" Of all the things Sherlock had said this afternoon, this made the least sense.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Not with any pleasure, I assure you. This has all been very exciting but it will be quite worth seeing the end of it to have our flat back." John blinked at that, but Sherlock went on without addressing it. "Now, there was a certain room in Sebastian's house that I found quite enlightening. How many bedrooms would you say are in that flat?"

"Two. I've seen the other, if that's what you're getting at," John gritted.

"You…" Sherlock, to his credit, collected himself quickly. "Of course. You wouldn't have known what to make of the items in the bureau, necessarily, and by that time I assume you and Sebastian were already… _intimate_." There was an obvious note of distaste in his voice. "But you saw the suits?"

John nodded, and Sherlock shook his head. "I wonder, sometimes, if ordinary people  _willfully_ miss all the important things or if they really, truly are that stupid."

"The suits, Sherlock."

"The suits," Sherlock yawned, "belonged to Moriarty. I recognized one of them as being the exquisite little Westwood piece he was wearing when he tried to kill us at the pool."

_The suit._

_Seb's cool voice, so soft and so angry: "He broke something of_ mine _."_

"Oh my God."


	5. Chapter 5

John clutched the toilet, his whole body shaking. He'd thrown up everything that was in him and now not even bile was coming up, but he could still feel the awful clench in his stomach, threatening to overwhelm him again. He panted and pressed his face to the cool seat, not caring about propriety. Sherlock leaned in the doorway, his arms folded over his chest and his mouth pressed firmly closed.

"He wasn't talking about me," John whispered, shutting his eyes tightly. God, he'd been such a fool…

"What do you mean?" Sherlock's voice was sharp.

"He said…" Wiping the sweat from his forehead, John tried again: "He said that you broke something of his. I thought…" Another clench of the stomach, and John was leaning over the loo, gagging and choking.

Sherlock pushed off from the door way and crossed the little bathroom in two long strides, falling into a crouch beside John. "Sexual intimacy often provides a sort of…inexplicable bonding," he said, using the same tone someone might use to explain something sad and complex to a child. "It's a matter of chemicals and sentiment, mostly," he added dismissively, "but perfectly typical."

"I don't  _love_  him," John groaned, sitting up and putting his back against the wall. It felt good to say those words out loud, because he had wondered…but no, he was sure he was right. He didn't love Seb, not in that way. "But we're close. He's…he's my best friend."

John hadn't expected the shadow of grief that passed over Sherlock's face (quickly replaced with the bland and untouchable expression he usually wore in public), nor did he expect the little twinge of guilt it gave him to see it. His voice cool, Sherlock droned, "Yes, well. It's quite the touching little tale. I do hope you'll include all the sordid details when you've published your memoirs." He stood and swept out of the lavatory with almost comical moodiness, and John watched him go with a mixture of awe and disbelief. He couldn't believe that Sherlock had faked his own death and let him believe it, believe he was actually gone and never coming back, and  _John_  was the one that felt like apologizing. He'd gone against his instincts and done what everyone told him to do: move on. Found a new flat, a new job, a new best friend. And all the while Sherlock was still out there being his impossible, aloof, brilliant self, not eating enough and tracking murderers across the globe. There was a sudden and intense ache in John's chest for those years he'd missed, and a painful longing for things to go back as they'd been. He found himself almost desperately homesick, not for Baker Street but for Sherlock himself, as if the space which the man occupied would only and always be home.

"Sherlock." John stood slowly- still dizzy, and still discovering new bruises with every shift of his muscles- and walked out to the sitting area to find Sherlock flounced, facedown, on the sofa, his new overcoat (shorter than the last, and charcoal gray) tugged around him like a blanket. John lifted Sherlock's legs, the taller man thankfully not resisting, and slid down on to the sofa, still holding Sherlock's socked feet. "I thought you were dead," he said softly, running his thumb along the underside of Sherlock's right foot.

Sherlock twitched a bit and rolled on to his side, pressing his face into the cushion. ( _Sometimes he can be such a child_ , John mused with a crooked smile.) Sherlock's voice was muffled as he admitted: "If  _you_ were dead, I'd carry on...being…" His words trailed off, and John got a sudden and vivid image of Sherlock stalking an assassin in Paris and rambling to John as if there wasn't a grave and the Channel between them. His heart gave an uncomfortable lurch in his chest.

"I'm sorry," John said, and it wasn't just for Sebastian, it was for all of it. John was impossibly, unendingly sorry, for a multitude of things. He was sorry for having his last real conversation with Sherlock be a suicide note, and he was sorry that the one before that had been a row. He was sorry that he hadn't been there on that rooftop, and he was sorry he wasn't clever enough to stop it from happening at all. He thought about how hard the last three years had been for him-  _And I had Seb_ , he thought- and realized that it must have been all the harder for Sherlock, because who on Earth did Sherlock have to turn to when everything was said and done? His awful brother? Irene, who repeatedly played him for a fool? As bad as things had been for John, as dark and empty and gray…he couldn't even imagine how it must have been for Sherlock, impossibly alone and with so much at risk.

Sitting up, Sherlock folded his arms and huffed, "Stop thinking; you're terrible at it," but there was no real malice in his words and his eyes were clear, resolute, no sign of anger in them.

John smiled, knowing that was going to be the extent of their conversation on the topic. There was still a great deal of anger hidden deep inside of him, and he knew he'd have to address it eventually. There was also the issue of trust; Sherlock would not find himself wriggling back into John's life as easily as he'd done before. There would be walls now, whether John put them up intentionally or not. But there was no resisting the mad genius, it seemed, and for now John had decided the man was mostly forgiven. In his mind, he'd played out a million scenarios of this moment, most of them involving him screaming, or  _hurting_  Sherlock as badly as he'd been hurt, or just pulling Sherlock into his arms and never letting him go. But in the end it was as simple as this: he put his hand on Sherlock's ankle and gave it a little pat before standing and sighing, "Tea or coffee?"


	6. Chapter 6

"So." John took a sip from his coffee mug and grimaced at the strength of it (at Sherlock's insistence he'd doubled the amount of grounds he was supposed to use and he could definitely taste the difference) before setting the mug down and turning to Sherlock. "What do we do now?"

Sherlock's face glowed from the light of John's laptop, his oddly feline eyes unblinking. "I've been tracking your darling Seb all day on CCTV. Mycroft will be annoyed," he grinned, unmistakable glee in his voice. "Morning was typical. He stayed in his flat until nearly noon, then went to the gym. Back to the flat. Out for lunch. Back to the flat. It's been excruciatingly dull."

"Why don't you just send Mycroft's people round his flat and have  _them_  round him up?" John thought, his mind struggling to picture his friend as someone worth Mycroft's time or energy. "That's what you did with the others, isn't it?"

"Mm." Sherlock nibbled his thumbnail before taking his fingers to the keyboard and typing urgently. "My brother has his uses," Sherlock admitted grudgingly, still typing, "but there's something strange about Moran, something I've missed. Why befriend you at all?" He slit his eyes over to John and cleared his throat. "I'm sure it was a worthwhile endeavor, of course, but there must have been some underlying motive."

John hoped his voice wouldn't hitch as he said, softly, "No, I don't imagine it was coincidence that he was at that vets' 'do."

His eyebrows canting upwards, Sherlock nodded. "I'm quite sure he placed himself there intentionally, but  _why_? If he wanted to use you against me, why not just kidnap you? Torture you, if he suspected you were aware of my whereabouts? True, he must have imagined some of your training would have kicked in, but he's an ex-soldier as well-"

Whatever Sherlock said after that, John didn't hear it. His heart was suddenly beating unnaturally hard, hate and anger pulsing through him like an angry current. He pushed away from the table, knocking the chair out from beneath him, and put his fist neatly through the drywall above his kitchen table.

"Oh," Sherlock said faintly. "I see."

John didn't s _ee_ , couldn't see anything through the dizzying veil of rage that overtook him like a drug. (And, faintly hidden underneath the rage, a whisper of unbidden and irrational lust beat out a message in his pulse, bidding him to hurt someone and to  _like_  the hurting, to  _revel_  in it.) Sherlock was rambling, listing off words that seemed entirely disconnected, but they barely pierced the through the throbbing hatred that muted everything around him.

"Mine," said Sherlock, and John found himself slumping quietly to the floor.

x

The kitchen floor was blessedly cool, but it was hard and made all of John's limbs stiff. He sat up very, very slowly, aware that Sherlock was perched cross-legged atop the table, his chin in his hands and his wide eyes trained carefully on John.

"The coffee had a touch too much kick for me, I think," John gritted, fairly embarrassed. It wasn't like him to go dizzy like this, and now he'd passed out not once but twice in Sherlock's presence. John wasn't much of a man for pretense but he did like to maintain some modicum of dignity, if at all possible.

"Interesting," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"I…" John stopped and puzzled over it for a second. "Punching the wall. I don't…I don't know why I did that…" He had a headache coming on and he rubbed his temples gingerly, his teeth still clenched. "Sorry. God, I'm all over the place, aren't I?"

Sherlock ignored him and slipped down from the table. "It was a trigger," he said, inspecting the coffee maker carefully.

"What, the coffee?" Shrugging off the urge to lie back down, John stood and leaned against the wall, his breath a little too heavy for his casual demeanor to be believable. "A trigger for what?"

"No, no," Sherlock tossed back at him, rummaging through one of John's cupboards. "The word I used. Obviously I can't tell you  _which_  word or I'll just trigger you again, but at least now I've got it figured out." He turned, clearly frustrated by something, his eyes scanning the room impatiently. "He's been drugging you, so obvious, don't know how I missed that, but  _how_? Ah." His eyes drifted to the floor and a smile lit his face. "Oh, ohhh, that's clever."

"Sherlock," John warned crossly.

"Right." Sherlock clapped his hands together, his eyes dancing. "John. Don't over-react, but I think you've been subliminally trained to kill me."


	7. Chapter 7

"I-. What?" John's head was still a bit fuzzy, but he was reasonably sure Sherlock had said the most ridiculous thing he could imagine.

"It's a simple process," Sherlock said, sounding almost bored. He settled back down at the table and opened the laptop again. "Not a very precise science, I suppose, but the steps are easy enough. Various governments have put significant sums into the research of creating split-personalities for the very purpose of creating the perfect 'sleeper' agent, so to speak." Looking over the laptop at John, he said, "Drugs. Abuse, both physical and emotional. Means to an end. Use them in the correct combination, with the correct trigger, and you can make people feel and act exactly as you'd like. Consider it something of a spin on conditioning, if you'd like."

John thought of Sebastian whispering to him in the alley about Sherlock, about being ruined. A shudder worked down his spine. "You said he drugged me?"

"Had to have done," Sherlock responded, his eyes trained on the screen and his fingers flying. "Can't get that kind of reaction without having caused some previous disorientation of a staggering variety. So. What kind of drug? Probably LSD or a variant. How did he administer it? I'd guess he was putting it in your drinks, but you're not a complete idiot. You would have noticed that."

Easing down beside Sherlock, John couldn't resist a smirk; from Sherlock, that was practically praise. "Then how did he do it?"

Sherlock looked at him with something bordering discomfort. "I'm working on that."

John looked at the laptop's screen, barely catching anything (Sherlock read so fast, and he was constantly switching tabs, closing windows, flying from one thing to the next so that in a span of a minute he'd read a snippet of a medical journal on some sort of database, inspected three angles of a CCTV feed, jotted notes in shorthand on an open Word document, and then repeated the cycle) but he noticed a repeat of the words "MK-ULTRA" and, more ominously, "delta programming". Something about the idea of being programmed like robot made John's insides go cold. "So, what?" John asked quietly, his throat suddenly tight, "I could go off at any minute? Someone would just have to say the word, and I'd be at your throat?"

"Evidently not," Sherlock drawled, "or I'd be dead right now. I said the word earlier, remember?"

"Then-"

"As I said before, it isn't a precise science. Performed by one mad man, outside the parameters of laboratory conditions…" Sherlock shrugged. "The results are intriguing, certainly, but by no means perfect. I think Sebastian would have to be present and able to command you for the programming to function as intended."

"Christ." John rubbed his forehead, his eyes closed tightly. "Will I be like this for the rest of my life? One word to fill me with murderous rage, one word to make me fall out like I've been sedated?"

"The deactivation code only works  _after_ the activation code, a.k.a. trigger word, has been used," Sherlock quipped helpfully. "I'll prove it to you; the deactivation code is 'mine'."

John half-expected to slump over in his seat, but- like with most things- Sherlock was right. "Still leaves the trigger to worry about," John grumbled, his mind running rampant with images of him bashing someone's face during a normal and pleasant conversation because of one stupid false word. "Is it at least a weird word? Super-cali-fragilsitic-something-or-other?"

"No such luck." Sherlock drained his mug and slid it to John, plainly expecting him to attend to it. "Still, you needn't worry overmuch. This is more of a challenge than a psychosomatic limp, but it's not improbable that I'll be able to fix you again."

Glad for the excuse to turn away, John stood and allowed himself a grin as he refilled Sherlock's coffee, stirring in two sugars and tapping the spoon dry with a few strangely gratifying clangs. If anyone could piece him back together, John reasoned, it would be Sherlock Holmes. God help him.

x

He wasn't sure when he dozed off, but John woke up in the kitchen alone, the light off and the sun long since set. Panic roiled through him- did Sherlock leave? But no, there were footsteps coming from the bedroom, through the sitting room…and then there was Sherlock, clicking on the kitchen light and putting his hands on his hips. John winced at the light and put his head back on his arms with a yawn.

"You look like hell," Sherlock said, with not a trace of sympathy.

"I'd guessed that, thanks," John groaned. "What time is it?"

Sherlock sighed. "Nearly midnight." He walked up to the table and slid John's mobile to him. "Sebastian has texted you four times today, the most recent sent three minutes ago. Read them and I'll tell you how to respond."

John looked up at him blearily before letting out a small, shaky breath and scooping up his phone. He read Seb's texts with as much detachment as he could muster.

The first was from just after noon:  _Mighty bruise round the throat, thanks tiger. Can't wait to see that eye of yours. Fancy a shag tonight? I know we usually take a little time for recovery, but I'm so wound up from that damn trip._

2 p.m.:  _Still sleeping, then? Maybe I'll amend 'tiger' to 'kitten'._

Quarter after six, just about when he and Seb typically made plans:  _All right, mate?_

And finally, from just a few minutes earlier:  _Right. No way you've slept this late (and if you have, ignore my hysteria and for the love of god text me when you wake up) so I'm going to assume a) you're dead, b) you're hurt, c) I did something bad, or d) I didn't do something good. Okay then, out with it: which one?_

Blushing, John looked up at Sherlock with the straightest face he could summon. "I assume you've read them already."

"Of course." Sherlock pulled out a chair and fell into it with an easy grace. "Respond to him precisely as follows:  _Awake, alive, and much too spent for a shag, sorry. The worried housewife routine is cute, though._ Have you written it?"

"Give me a second, would you?" John typed and then nodded. "Okay, I've got it written out. Send it?"

Sherlock nodded and pressed his palms together, setting his index fingers just below his chin and pursing his lips.

Barely a minute passed before John's phone trilled. Sherlock gestured, his face impassive, and said, "Read it. Aloud, please."

John swallowed down his embarrassment. "Okay. It says:  _Oh no, was I too rough, pet?_ Honestly, Sherlock, can't you just read this yourself?" To Sherlock's blank face and raised brow, he sighed and went on: " _Then I shan't bother you again until you're rested. (Unless you change your mind about that shag. Or you just want to come over and kick me around for awhile. My face is much too pretty, don't you think? God, John, imagine what you could do with a set of brass knuckledusters.)_ That's it. That's…that's the end." John swallowed again, trying to fight the flush that was reddening his ears. Despite himself, despite recent developments and revelations…well, sex with Seb was never dull. He flicked his eyes up to Sherlock, who was watching him with unbridled curiosity.

"Everyone gets bored," he said, his eyes flashing with something wholly unfamiliar. "What are you thinking right now?"

John drew his mouth into a flat line. What was he thinking? He was thinking…he was thinking about Seb, if he was honest. How many times had Seb tried to kill him? Would he try it again? (Would he choke him right up to the point where stars form in his eyes, his breath hot on John's ear, and whisper awful things to him?) He shook his head and tried to think of something else, anything else, but instead he found himself thinking of the time Seb had put a lit cigarette to his thigh and held it there while he sucked John off.

Sure he was red all over now, John looked up at Sherlock, who was scanning his face with the same kind of care he'd use at a crime scene, his body tense and his fingers twitching agitatedly. He looked for all the world like he was on a case. The Case of John Watson's Twisted Libido. John rubbed his temples and scoffed. "What do you want me to say, Sherlock?" he asked, not sure if he was asking about a response to him or to Seb.

Sherlock stood abruptly and began pacing. "Something apologetic. Try to make plans for tomorrow, if you can." He waved his hand impatiently and crossed his arms over his chest, clearly deep in thought.

"Okay," John muttered, tapping out:  _Imagining eagerly. If I could get out of bed, I'd be at your flat in ten or less. Got anything on tomorrow?_

The response was immediate:  _Nothing that can't be immediately discarded without a second thought._

"He'll meet me," John said quietly, not looking up from his phone. It didn't seem right, letting Sherlock dictate all of this. It was irrational, he knew, but John still felt like Seb was a friend. And betraying his trust felt…wrong. It was foolish thinking like that, but John couldn't help it.

Sherlock stopped pacing and nodded, his mouth small and frowning. "Tell him you'd like to meet at the pub tomorrow at eight. Have you sent it yet?" He waited for John to catch up, still frowning, then nodded again. "Perfect. Now go to bed, John. I have a great deal of research to do and I don't want you hovering."


	8. Chapter 8

When John woke up, dawn was barely creeping through the (now tightly closed) curtains. He felt better physically- his eyes were both fully functional, thank you, even if the left one had a touch of a squint- and probably would have kept sleeping quite comfortably if not for the impertinent growl of his exceptionally empty stomach. He turned over, and his heart gave a little leap. Sherlock was sleeping on his back on top of the bedclothes, his shirt untucked on one side and his breathing slow, soft, each exhale sounding like a sigh. It was remarkable how young he looked, his dark hair messy and falling into his eyes and his arms thrown back above his head, elbows akimbo and fingers curled. It struck John that he'd never seen Sherlock sleeping before, probably for exactly this very reason. He doubted Sherlock would be pleased to discover anyone had seen this softer side of him.

Not wanting to wake him, but desperately wanting to close the space between them, John shifted carefully until his head was tucked just under Sherlock's arm, his face lightly pressed to Sherlock's chest. He breathed in the smell of Sherlock's expensive laundry detergent (did Mycroft have his laundry sent out, or did he keep a housekeeper? Hell, the man probably had an entire staff devoted to menial tasks such as laundering Sherlock's five hundred quid shirts) and his aftershave (not the same one he'd used before, John found, and he preferred the old one better). Underneath that was just the smell of Sherlock, the faint scent of sweat and warm skin and something impossible to describe. He glanced up at Sherlock's face, so soft in sleep, and Sherlock chose just that exact moment to wake up all at once. His eyes snapped open and met John's with scrutiny.

"You should have woken me," Sherlock said, stretching. John expected to be pushed away and thoughtlessly discarded, and so was pleasantly surprised when Sherlock brought his arm down and set his hand on John's back.

"You looked so peaceful," John smiled, sliding his own hand up on to Sherlock's belly. "I didn't want to interrupt something so rare."

Sherlock gave a little snort. "I hardly consider sleep to be 'peaceful'. I was planning."

"What, in your sleep?"

"Of course." Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and shifted a little closer to John. "Dreaming is far too mundane and useless a task to be granted any of my time, especially on a case."

John smiled against Sherlock's chest. He should have known better than to assume Sherlock did anything in the ordinary fashion, even dreaming. "So, what did you plan, then?"

"After you went to bed," Sherlock said, his body growing more and more tense with every word, "Sebastian left his flat again. I had half a mind to follow him, but I…well, it was perhaps wiser to simply observe." His tone suggested some other reasoning behind his decision, but John didn't dare over-think it and so merely nodded as Sherlock went on: "As usual, CCTV was instrumental in tracking his movements. The cameras allowed me to follow him, in a manner of speaking, to a disused warehouse only blocks from his flat. Later I confirmed that the owner of the warehouse was listed as 'Richard Brook', and that the building had been paid for in full and was not being used in any official capacity, nor had it ever been. I skimmed over the blueprints online and spent my short nap determining where Sebastian must be hiding him."

"Sorry, what?" John sat up on his elbow, frowning. "Hiding who?"

Sherlock smiled, but there was something terrible in his smile, something cold and ruthless. "Jim Moriarty. Who else?"

x

John turned up his collar against the harsh wind as Sherlock picked the lock on the back door of Quality Enterprises, Inc with typical, calm efficiency. They slipped inside (John's hand firmly wrapped around the grip of his handgun) and kept close to the walls, Sherlock's eyes sweeping over every minute detail. John felt a strange calm settle over him comfortably, much the way one would settle a well-loved old blanket over one's lap on a winter evening. This was exceedingly dangerous and incredibly risky, and the weight of that risk was like an old friend that John had missed horribly. For the first time in years, he felt time slow down. He could hear every creak and groan as the wind rattled around the building, could feel the strength and power of his every muscle. Even his eyes seemed to be working better, the near-darkness of the empty warehouse opening itself and revealing the contents of the space in grayscale.

There wasn't much to the building. It was one story, with a low flat roof and windowless brick walls. The floor was concrete and rough, but clean. Stacks of crates stood along on wall, filling the room with the scent of cedar and dust, but otherwise the open floor of the room was empty. To John and Sherlock's left was what appeared to be an office, one big window (covered in yellowing plastic blinds) facing out to the warehouse floor, the door firmly shut. They approached the office quietly, carefully, John nearly walking backwards to keep Sherlock safely at his back. He could hear his every breath and the soft click of Sherlock's tools as the taller man stooped and fiddled with the lock. The door clicked open, swung in. John scanned the warehouse a final time before pulling the door closed behind them and sliding the lock back into place.

He swiveled, examining the office. It was small, with a single (and very dated) desktop computer sitting atop the broad plywood desk in the corner, the monitor off but the tower softly humming. Next to the computer were an old corded phone and a stack of yellow-papered notebooks, all of them blank, unused. Under the window sat a long freezer, apparently functional from its distant thrumming and the touch of cool air that surrounded it. Above them, the suspended ceiling was thick with dust; below them, an old brown rug was threadbare with use.

"I thought you said-" John whispered, but Sherlock held up one finger and approached the freezer slowly, cautiously, his eyes wide and his breath held. John followed closely, slipping the gun from his pocket and gripping it, his gun hand supported by the palm of the other. With something like trepidation, Sherlock gently eased the freezer door open and set it back against the wall.

A gag tickled John's throat as the air filled with the sickly sweet smell of rot. Inside the freezer was a corpse in various states of decomposition. The face was rotted away, revealing the horrid, waxy yellow of fat and bone, but there were still dark clumps of hair matted to the broken, sticky skull. The corpse was wearing a suit, the fabric worn in some places but in basically good condition, all things considered. It looked (John noted with horror) as though the body had been allowed to thaw and freeze in regular intervals for anywhere between a year and five years.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he muttered, pressing his hand to his mouth.

Sherlock looked at him with unconcealed amusement. "God," he said breathlessly, turning his gaze back to the half-rotted corpse, "do you think he's been shagging it?"

John heaved and swallowed back the urge to vomit, turning away. "Close it, close it," he gasped, his eyes watering. Wordlessly, Sherlock obeyed. The smell of rot still hung in the air, but with the corpse concealed it was easier for John to fight off the overwhelming need to dispel his breakfast on the old brown carpet. Normally he had a strong stomach and he hadn't yet encountered a crime scene that turned his stomach like this one…but the thought of Seb touching that thing, of Seb  _shagging_ that thing, and then of him touching  _John_ -

"Did you hear that?" Sherlock's voice was barely more than a breath.

John strained and listened; yes, he definitely heard it: the distant tinkle of keys in a distant lock. "Oh, hell."

"Here, quickly." Sherlock hopped up on the table and helped John up after him before easing away one of the ceiling tiles, revealing a small, dark space above them. He knelt and took John around the waist, lifting him easily so that John could scrabble his way up and lay down in the dusty warmth of the ceiling's crawlspace. Sherlock followed neatly after him, still somehow graceful, and quietly slid the ceiling tile back into place just as the office door clicked open and one set of footsteps entered the room.


	9. Chapter 9

Never in his life had John been happier for his unusually small size and Sherlock's utter lack of clumsiness. The skeleton of the roof's support beams sagged lightly under their weight, the tiles useless and untouchable. Below them- neither John nor Sherlock could see into the office, but they could hear everything unnaturally well, a fact which made them breathe as silently as possible- a person was walking slowly around the room. John imagined Sherlock would know instantly if it were Seb or not, probably could tell from the heaviness of his steps or something, but speaking was not an option, and so John only stared at his friend's pale, taut face and tried to calm the steady thumping of his heart.

The footsteps stopped abruptly, and they could hear the subtle crack of the freezer door being opened. A muffled dragging; was he moving the corpse? The office chair creaked. For a long moment, all was silent.

John had almost decided to try and sign something to Sherlock, possibly even suggest that they take their unexpected guest by surprise by leaping down on to him, when Seb spoke. His voice was strange, lilting. It reminded John uncomfortably of someone else. "Naughty boy," he cooed in an eerily close approximation of Moriarty's voice. "Come back to see me so soon?"

The chair creaked again; Seb had leaned forward. In his own voice, he replied, "Daddy. Forgive me. I had to see you." There was something new in his voice, a touch of reverence but also of fear. Switching back to the lilting tones of Moriarty, Seb laughed and growled, "Can't Sebby-baby handle anything on his own? Oh, don't cry. Come here, hmm? Come let Daddy fix it."

John's eyes went impossibly wide. He looked at Sherlock, who, for once, looked thoroughly astonished. Below them, Seb whimpered, "Daddy. It's time, isn't it? Time for me to break the toy that isn't mine."

"Yes, baby," Seb said to himself. There was a shifting, and a thump. In his Moriarty voice, Seb murmured, "There now. This is a good day, Sebby. You're going to make things right." His voice was pure, unfiltered evil as he added with a roar, "A queen for a queen!"

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow as Seb sobbed, "You were my favorite, Daddy! My favorite toy! And he…and he… _broke_ you!" For an unbelievable stretch of time, the silence was only shattered by Seb's drawn out, choking sobs.  _He's barking mad,_ John thought with a rush of complete terror. His best friend, the person he thought he knew best in the world, was completely hatstand.

Eventually Seb calmed to mere sniffles. It sounded as though he were rocking back and forth slowly, though the dull scratch of a weight against the floor suggested he was clutching the corpse in his arms. His tone wicked and dancing, he said, "Daddy's had a visitor, Sebby. Who do you think came to see sorry old me?" He drew a sharp breath and cried, in his own voice, "No! He was here?"

John stiffened, his eyes going somehow wider. Sherlock carefully, slowly, shook his head. Sounding near-hysterical, Seb whimpered, "He was here, he was here! If he touched you-" Interrupting himself, Seb chuckled. "No, he didn't touch me. He only looked. But he brought a friend." The last word was dragged out in a spine-tingling sing-song.

"My John?" Seb sounded horrified. In his other voice, he hissed, " _Your_ John? Have you forgotten why you took him?" Clearing his throat, he whispered, "No, Daddy. I know what must be done." He took a deep, hitching breath and sighed, "But I'll miss our little games. Just like I miss playing with you, Daddy. You were a good puppet." He sniffled for awhile and then drawled, "John will be a good puppet, too, when the time is right. You'll see, Sebby. The game isn't over. The kings remain." There was a stretch of silence, and then a shuffling and a harsh thud. The freezer door closed with a clap; the office door squeaked open and then gently clicked shut. John's heart hammered in his chest.

John and Sherlock remained perfectly still for a quarter of an hour, but Seb didn't come back. When it became clear that they were definitely alone, John whispered harshly, "What the fuck was that?"

Sherlock had the good grace not to smile. "A raving lunatic displaying a serious lack of confidence in his feeble plotting," he said, shifting over and removing one of the ceiling tiles. He slipped out and landed lightly on the desk before stretching his arms back up for John.

With his feet safely on the floor, John stalked the room, chills running down his spine. "Seriously. Explain that to me. He was talking to the corpse, pretending it was Moriarty?"

"The corpse  _is_  Moriarty," Sherlock said patiently, his magnifying glass out as he inspected the computer monitor. "Well, I say 'is'."

John froze, his eyes going to the freezer. "That's Moriarty's corpse? Why in heaven's name would he keep Moriarty's corpse in a freezer and take it out now and then to give it a quick chat?"

Sherlock straightened. "Of course. That's the thing I missed."

"What?"

"Moriarty." Crossing the room, Sherlock took John by the arms and gave a him a small shake. "Moriarty! Seb said that Moriarty was 'a good puppet'. Remember at the pool, when Moriarty said he didn't like to get his hands dirty?"

John nodded; he remembered everything about that night at the pool in excruciatingly vivid detail.

"John," Sherlock said, his eyes bright, "all those people, being directed by a voice, or through text. Like a ventriloquist's dummies. Don't you see?"

"No," John said, shaking his head. "No, I'm afraid I don't."

"Think!" Giving him another shake, Sherlock growled: "Moriarty didn't have a problem getting his hands dirty! He was there at the pool when he could have easily killed us both from a distance with a remote detonator. Moriarty stole the crown jewels himself and gleefully served his time in jail. He had his hands in every dirty crevice of that plot against me, and he was positively thrilled about it. You should have seen the look on his face when he killed himself, John. He was having the time of his life. So who doesn't like getting his hands dirty?"

Comprehension dawned suddenly and left John breathless. His voice was flat and quiet as he intoned: "Oh, God. It's Seb." He looked up at Sherlock, who was watching him with obvious pleasure, not at John's horror but at the light in his eyes that said he understood. "It's always been Seb, hasn't it?"

Sherlock nodded, a small swift movement. "Oh, he's good," he admitted, not without a hint of admiration. "All this time…I can't believe I never realized it. That's what he meant when he said 'the kings remain'. This is all still a game to him, and even though he's lost his best piece- Moriarty- he still thinks he can win. Because I haven't taken the king yet."

"How did he know we were here?" John said, casting around for a camera and coming up empty-handed.

"He deduced it." Sherlock dismissed John's worries with a flap of his hand. "I could have easily done the same. But you heard how he spoke to that corpse; it's as though he needs it to think for him, needs its approval. Sebastian might be the mastermind but he still doesn't like getting his hands dirty, and it bothers him that he doesn't have an acceptable puppet to act for him." Swinging open the office door, Sherlock gestured for John to follow and jogged through the empty warehouse and out into the street. They were nearly to back to John's flat when he spoke again.

"He's going to do it tonight," he said thoughtfully, not looking at John. "Whatever he's put in your head, he's going to use it tonight. You'll need to be ready."

"I am ready," John said, sounding stronger than he felt.

"Good," Sherlock said with a nod. "Because I'm not particularly keen on being killed tonight." With a smile in his voice, he added, "Though if I must be killed, I'm glad you'll be the one to do it."

"Oh, thanks," John said, unlocking the flat. "I guess you figure the guilt will kill me as well, so it evens out in the end?"

"Hmm? No." Sherlock swept past him and immediately went to work on the laptop. "I just don't think you'll gloat about it. Besides," he said, looking up at John, "there's no one else in the world I'd trust not to do a botched job of it. Except perhaps my brother, but you  _know_ he'd gloat."

John couldn't help it: he laughed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I planned everything to this point one day at work, but my shift ended and my mind drifted before I got here, so…
> 
> Basically, I'm not sure if it's any good. I've got the rest of the chapters planned (the ending, though, I've had in mind since the beginning) but like I said…I don't know if I'm happy with them or not. I may come through later and change them up, but for now this is what we've got. I don't think it's nearly clever enough. I don't know, we'll see.

"And here I thought you'd changed your mind," Seb smiled over his tankard. He took a long drink as John slid into the opposite booth.

John's stomach was rolling, but his face was cheerful and his tone amiable as he said, "Why's that?" Sherlock had instructed him to play dumb for as long as possible, hoping it would buy them time, but the awful stretch of Seb's lips made John think that scenario seemed unlikely.

"Bad tactic," Seb said as the bartender set down a pint for John and scurried away. "So, how long has Sherlock Holmes been playing with my newest toy?"

"Don't call me that," John snapped, his arms automatically crossing over his chest.

Seb laughed, his eyes flashing, and leaned forward over the table. "We had something special, Johnny-boy. I don't want you to think I say that to all my toys, 'cause I don't." His smirk turned into a sneer as he whispered, "Only my favourites." For a moment his eyes were distant, and then he turned his gaze back to John's and smiled so openly, so honestly, that John was struck breathless by it. It wasn't the smile of a madman; this was Seb, his Seb, beaming at him like he'd done something magnificent. "You know," Seb said, sounding just like his old self, "I knew right away we'd get along great. I could see it in your eyes. I could see you remembered."

John waited for Seb to go on but the other man was silent, scrutinizing John with a little half-grin, and so John asked softly, "Remembered what?"

"The war. The lawless land." Now there was something more manic in Seb's tone, an edge of insanity that made it easier for John to distance himself. When Seb spoke again his voice was hushed, awe-struck. "Remember your first kill, John? Maybe not. Sometimes those things can be…confusing. Everyone's firing, and even when there's a hit you're not sure it came from  _your_ rifle. Doesn't matter; those are just words." He leaned forward again, his eyes shining. "Remember your first  _definite_ kill?"

John did. He was an army medic, but he'd carried a sidearm and he'd had to use it, more than once. He remembered the first time he squeezed the trigger and knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his bullet had found its home in someone else's body. The kill shot. He remembered.

Clapping gleefully, Seb leaned back and cried, "What a rush!" More calmly he sighed, "I loved it, the killing. God, there's nothing better, is there? Of course," he added, a bit more soberly, "I loved it so much that they had to send me home. Figured it was doing funny things to my head, thought a little English soil might fix me right up." Seb gave John a look that reminded him so strongly of Moriarty that his stomach turned. "But they were wrong. Why did they think I'd stop killing just because I was home, John? Why? Civvie or no, I don't give a shit. I just like to watch the light go out."

"You're mad," John whispered, unable to stop himself. He'd never been so horrified in his life. John had seen awful things, unspeakable things, both in the desert and in A&E during his internship…but nothing compared to the awful gleam in Seb Moran's darkened eyes.

Seb laughed, an awful sound that made John's blood run cold. "I used to think the whole world was mad and I was the only sane one left," Seb murmured, as though he were revealing some grand secret. "But then I realized: no, I truly am insane. I've lost touch with reality." The grin that Seb shot John was equal parts cocky and frightening. "So fucking what? Reality was never good enough for me, anyway." He took a long sip from his pint and burped. "Good riddance."

"Seb…" John didn't know what he wanted to say, only that he wanted to say something, anything, that might fix this. He still believed, somewhere deep inside, that they could all come out of this alive.

Sebastian seemed to be following his thoughts, because his eyes widened and his gaze wandered to the table as he said, sadly, "I tried to cheat at my own game for you, Johnny, did you know that?" He looked up at John with something like fondness. "I didn't tell Daddy- my Jim. He would have been _furious_. But I just…I wanted to keep you. I like you, Johnny-boy. I like the taste of your blood and the fire in your eyes. For awhile, at least, you felt like mine. If Sherlock would have just died, those few months ago, we could have kept on forever, you and me. But…" He shrugged. "It's for the best, really. The clock ticks on. The game winds down. I'm sorry that I have to break you, Johnny, because I like you quite a bit. But…well, I'm sure you understand."

John took a deep breath. He needed to get Seb outside, get him somewhere alone. His gun was a cold, solid weight against his back. "I understand," he said, and nearly meant. Seb was right. The game had to end and John felt that the sooner, the better.

"Good." Seb reached across the table and touched his hand; it took all of John's strength not to flinch away. "So you're ready to play?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," John said, clenching his jaw and straightening his shoulders.

Seb smiled, something wistful in the glimmer of his eyes. "Okay, then. Let's go, soldier."


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock held the button down until he was sure it was safe, then whispered into his handset: "Now."

x

John was still wincing from the awful, piercing sound that had just filled his ears when Sherlock's voice crackled through his earpiece: "Now." He blinked away the pain and tried to remember some of the anger he'd felt the night before, the fury that had consumed him suddenly and without merit when Sherlock accidently said his trigger word. He let some of it wash over him (it felt like psyching himself up before a fight…and in a way, that's exactly what he was doing) before he opened his eyes and looked across the table at Seb.

Seb smiled, slow and dangerous, but his eyes were narrowed. "How ya feelin', Johnny-boy?"

Something about this felt wrong; the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. This was an old, familiar feeling. In John's mind, he was walking with three other men, soldiers, the four of them aware of every single breath they took, the village around them silent enough that they could hear a pin drop.  _Not good_. John pushed those thoughts away and instead considered Seb's question. That, too, was familiar, and he answered it the same way he'd answered his comrades in the desert right before their unit moved out: "Fucking bored and ready for some action."

"In the words of our Yankee brothers," Seb said softly, that eerie smile stile lingering on his face, "hoo-rah."

The din of the pub seemed to dim around them, and John felt that time must have been slowing down. Seb slid out of the booth and walked over to John's side of the table, kneeling until their eyes were level, their faces only inches apart. "Where is Sherlock Holmes?" he whispered, suddenly deadly serious.

"At my flat," John answered at once. It was a lie, but it was the lie that he and Sherlock had agreed upon and he felt comfortable, almost at ease, with the way it sounded.

Seb stood and straightened his shirt absently (thankfully not noticing the sudden horror that passed over John's expression as he realized he could smell Moriarty on it, the rot of his corpse and the dust of the abandoned office) before turning back to John with renewed playfulness. "Good," he said, nodding. "Let's go and get him. It's his turn, after all, and the man can't exactly play if he's not even present." He put out his hand to John and grinned, "Rules are rules. I should know; I made them."

John took Seb's hand despite the revulsion that was running through him like nausea and let Seb hold him around the shoulders all the way outside. He wished fervently that Sherlock would say something, anything, through the earpiece.  _Please, Sherlock_ , he thought anxiously,  _don't let him do this. I don't want you to die again._ They walked for what felt like ages, Seb silent, John lost in his own thoughts.

A sharp pin-prick in his neck brought John crashing back to the present. Seb was tossing a hypodermic needle over his shoulder with a sigh, his body language suggesting he was disappointed. "Sherlock is supposed to be a genius," Seb said, almost sadly. "A genius!" He sighed again and slung his arm around John as the smaller man began to droop, his head swimming.

As John slipped into a deep, bottomless sleep, Seb plucked the receiver from John's ear and held it between his thumb and forefinger, examining it thoughtfully. Then he brought it to his mouth and spoke, softly: "Not very clever, using my old tricks. Don't forget who this puppet belongs to. Now, I think you know where to meet me, hmm? But in case you don't, here's a hint: listen to the traffic. See you soon, Sherlock Holmes. I hope you bring me a little more of a challenge in the next round." He flicked the earpiece down into the gutter and tucked John up against him, whistling jauntily as he pulled John's slacken body alongside him.

x

Sherlock hadn't expected their little ruse to last long (not that he told John as much; better to keep the man in the dark and safe than to drag him out into the light, exposed) but he had rather hoped Sebastian would play along for longer than that. Still, he'd gotten the information he needed. He listened to the traffic, as Moran said and as he'd planned to do from the start…but now he realised that Moran was right: he knew exactly where he needed to be, even without the sounds of London bustling in tinny waves from his handset. There was nowhere else this- the end- could have taken place.

Out on the street, Sherlock hailed a cab and slid in, his fingers already dancing across his mobile. "St. Bart's," he told the cabbie, not looking up, and only when they were on their way did he dare spare a glance out the window and into the night.


	12. Chapter 12

It was almost like stepping back in time.

Sebastian Moran had positioned himself exactly where Moriarty had sat, years ago, his mobile in hand and squawking out the sounds of the BeeGees. There were several important differences, of course. A strong wind gusted over the little rooftop, tugging at their clothes and practically ripping the ridiculous music right out of the air. It was dark, the light of the moon and the glow of the lights on the nearby helipad casting odd shadows. And, most importantly, just to Moran's left stood John Watson. He was wearing a very fine suit (a Westwood, actually- Sherlock noted this with grim interest) and had his arms behind his back, his chin angled upwards. The expression on his face was one of malicious amusement; Sherlock had never seen such a look on John's face, nor had he ever wanted to.

"Mine!" Sherlock shouted, not at all surprised when the two men looked at each other and laughed.

Moran stood and silenced his mobile, tucking it into his back pocket before he took a few steps towards Sherlock. "Nice to finally meet you in person, Mr. Holmes," he said pleasantly, though there was a violent glimmer in his eyes. "I've heard so much about you. By the way, I guess I should inform you that the deactivation code only works when it's delivered by the same person who said the trigger word."

"And whose idea was that?" Sherlock quipped, and Seb laughed again.

"Very clever. Nice try." He heaved a contented sigh and looked around, smiling a little. "This has been fun, hasn't it? I'm almost sorry things have to end here." His eyes flashed as he brought them back to Sherlock's. "Almost."

"I could end things  _very_ quickly," Sherlock said, his voice low, as he drew the small pistol Mycroft had given him over three years ago, just before he boarded the train to the Continent on his way to Paris.

The sight of the gun seemed to thrill Moran, who giggled before twitching his finger in front of him. "Ah! Not so fast." As though Moran were trying to invoke every awful memory Sherlock had of John in danger, a small red dot appeared on his friend's forehead. John's face lit up like a child's on Christmas, and he reached one hand around and touched the light with a chuckle. Judging from the sudden warmth on his own forehead, Sherlock imagined he was also in the sights of some nearby sniper. "This might be overkill," Moran said, appearing to consider before lifting his shoulders in a shrug, "but…John, point your gun at Mr. Holmes."

John beamed and swung his left arm around, lining the barrel up so that it was pointed at Sherlock's chest. His other hand came up and supported the gun; his stance shifted naturally, perfectly. Sherlock left out a slow breath. "This is all a bit boring, isn't it?" He looked over at John's grinning face and forced himself to roll his eyes. "Having John kill me. It's so…obvious. Dull." He yawned emphatically before sighing, "Very well, then. Get on with it. John: shoot me."

If Moran's renewed burst of laughter surprised Sherlock at all, he didn't let on. "Kill you? John? Is  _that_ what you thought? God, I thought you were supposed to be  _smart_." Moran crossed the distance between them until his chest was nearly touching Sherlock's and hissed: "Don't play dumb. You know what this is about."

"Moriarty." Sherlock didn't take a step back, as much as he would have liked to. "One of your puppets. Forgive me if I don't quite understand the obsession."

"Jim was-." Moran stopped himself; he shot a glance at John who was watching placidly, one eyebrow raised and a slight smirk tugging at his lips. "Jim belonged to me. And you broke him."

"Yes, I think we've established that."

"Don't!" Moran grabbed fistfuls of Sherlock's shirt, tugging him closer. "Don't give me that bollocks routine. You know what Jim was to me; it's the same as what John is to you."

"You're sorely mistaken," Sherlock said, but Moran only shook his head. He was visibly upset now, his entire body trembling, and Sherlock wondered how long it would take before the madness swept over him entirely, washing away all trace of sanity and clear judgment. Soon, he hoped; he desperately needed Moran to make the mistake he'd already almost made.

Moran began to chuckle, the noise more like a low and dreadful sob than anything mirthful. "Sherlock, Sherlock. Mr. Holmes. Did you really think I'd train Johnny here to kill you? I want that privilege for myself." He shook his head again and walked back over to John, who smiled widely at him. Snaking his arm around John's shoulder, he looked back over at Sherlock and said, wistfully, "Once upon a time I had a toy that I loved very, very much. And a very bad man took him away, to a quiet rooftop overlooking grim gray London streets, and he broke my favourite toy. You see, I didn't give permission to Jimmy to do what he did. The gun was only to be used on Mr. Sherlock Holmes, if need be. I made that  _very_ clear."

"A crying shame," John smiled, in a voice not at all like his own, and a shiver ran down Sherlock's spine. He understood now, for certain, and the understanding sat in his stomach like a weight.

"A crying shame," Moran echoed. "Now, here's Sherlock Holmes' favourite toy. A nice, gently-used toy soldier. A good toy." His voice dropped so that Sherlock barely heard him as he breathed, "And now I'm going to break him."

"John," Sherlock said automatically, taking a step forward, as Sebastian panted, his entire body shaking with excitement, "Johnny, put the gun in your mouth."

Laughing, John dropped his right hand and raised the left one, the barrel of his gun turning towards him. "Want me to pretend it's your cock, boss?" he grinned, sliding his tongue up the barrel before slipping it into his mouth with a wink.

Moran laughed, hard, his head going back, and when he stood upright again he had to brush tears from his eyes. "God, I wish I could keep you! My little toy soldier. You've been fucking great, Johnny-boy." His gaze hardened as he added, "But leave it to Sherlock Holmes to ruin everything. Let's dream, for a moment, about what could have been."

Sherlock's heart was beating hard and fast as he stepped forward and cried, "Do you know why he did it?"

Sebastian froze, his eyes widening. "Shut up, Mr. Holmes. For your own fucking good. Shut up."

"He liked me better, in the end," Sherlock said, his voice thankfully steady. He took another step forward, using his peripheral vision to keep his eyes on John. "Moriarty. I was more interesting, cleverer. You know, I think he might have been in love with me."

"Stop it." Moran took several slow steps towards Sherlock, his eyes narrow and his mouth twisted in a snarl. "I know what you're doing; stop it."

"You should have seen that way he looked at me in that courtroom," Sherlock said, smiling a little. "When I said I felt we had a 'special something'. The man was practically gagging for me already. By the time we got up here…"

"Daddy would never have betrayed me," Moran whispered, his voice shaking.

"But he did. He did betray you." Sherlock took the last few steps necessary, until his mouth was right up against Moran's ear. "In the end, Jim belonged to me."

"He was  _mine_!" Sebastian cried, his voice broken and aching even as his eyes went wide and wild. Sherlock looked up just in time to see John's eyes roll back and his body slump over, the gun slipping from his fingers and falling harmlessly on the ground beside him.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Sebastian didn't seem to realize his mistake, busy as he was winding his hands around Sherlock's throat. The two struggled for a moment, Sherlock's gun tumbling from his hand as he reached up to scrabble at Sebastian's tightening fingers. The red sniper sights followed their movements, but Sherlock was flailing, tugging Moran here and there, and whoever the snipers were didn't seem to want to risk taking the shot.  _Good,_  Sherlock thought, even as he began to feel light-headed from the lack of air.  _Now it's show-time._

x

John's head felt awful, like it had recently come into contact with a very hard surface at a very high speed. He sat up slowly, not sure where he was or why, and shivered as a strong wind slipped up under his clothes and seemed to slice through his skin. It was cold, city noises echoing around him, and for a moment all he could think was that he'd somehow passed out on the way home from a night at Seb's. Then memories started swimming back to him: the last time he'd gone to Seb's house…and what had been awaiting him when he got home.

Sherlock.

Oh God, Sherlock.

His eyes flew open to an awful scene: Sherlock and Sebastian struggling before him, Seb's hands around Sherlock's throat. They appeared to be on a rooftop, the nearby skyline oddly familiar, but he didn't give any of that a second thought. As soon as he realized what was happening- saw Sherlock's pale face going almost blue, and the mad sheen in Seb's wild eyes- he was scooping up his gun and standing on slightly wobbly feet, bracing himself to take the shot that would end Seb's life and save Sherlock's.

"No," Sherlock rasped, and only then did John notice the little red dot that was dancing across Sherlock and Sebastian's constantly moving bodies.

No, no, no! Not this again! John looked around desperately, trying to track the sights and possibly take out the snipers himself…but he knew well enough that he was out of range and that he'd never find them, not with his head spinning like it was. Unless a muzzle flash gave away their locations… Christ, but he was running out of time, Sherlock making awful choking noises-

Pulling his body low, he barreled over and slipped his arms around Sebastian's waist, twisting so that as he yanked Seb away from Sherlock (who, blessedly, began dragging in ragged breaths immediately) he himself fell down on top of Sherlock and took Seb down with him, holding him on top of them both. It was a preposterous sort of doggy-pile, but it worked. The snipers wouldn't dare take the shot, not with the three of them all so close. Before Sebastian could speak a word, John brought his gun up and pressed it to his temple.

Seb stilled. "Johnny," he breathed, and John pressed the muzzle closer.

"Don't you dare speak," John gasped. "I'll shoot, Seb; you know I'll do it." Trusting that to be sufficient, John asked, "Sherlock, now what?"

"Now you get off me," Sherlock panted, fidgeting, "so I can breathe."

"Can't do. They'll shoot you."

"I'm fine, I'll be fine." Sherlock gave them a strong push and it was all John could do to climb to his feet steadily, one arm still holding Seb close as the other held the gun to Seb's head. Sherlock's hands were on his knees as he took in deep, shaking breaths and John looked around, his head clearer now and his eyes growing sharper.

"Stay behind me," John growled protectively, but even that was too late. He saw it as though it were in slow motion: the muzzle flash, just to the left of where he predicted it would be. Again, time slowed down. He drew a breath, stepped in front of Sherlock, and- the gun still pressed to Seb's temple- pulled the trigger. There were two loud cracks, one after the other, and then another, and another, and one more. John wondered if he were dreaming or if the sound of an approaching helicopter was real. It was hard to tell; night kept switching with day, the dark chill of London flip-flopping with the brilliant heat of Afghanistan in a sickening rotation. There was an awful heat in his stomach, spreading quickly and accompanied by a feeling so sharp and terrible that it took his breath away. The ground came up to meet him. He could hear Sherlock crying, "John!" just as Lt. Waters shouted "Watson!" and the cold cement/hot sand beneath him became sticky with blood. John's blood. He was dying.

"Sherlock," he breathed, as his vision dimmed, "don't…"  _Don't leave me._ The world went dark.


	14. Chapter 14

"You were late," Sherlock spat.

John's throat felt dry and scratchy; his eyes wouldn't open. The sounds and smells that surrounded him were familiar and strangely comforting. He was in hospital, then. He couldn't exactly remember  _why_ he was in hospital, but the twinge of the IV in his arm and the steady beep of his pulse monitor both told him that he was alive, alive, wonderfully and blessedly alive. And Sherlock was here. Sherlock…

"If you had followed Doctor Watson's instructions and  _stayed down_ -" Mycroft. He sounded very nearly flustered, for once. John didn't think he'd ever heard Mycroft sound anything but bored and condescending.

To his further amazement, Sherlock sounded completely distraught as he moaned, "I know! Don't you think I know? If he had died-"

 _Sherlock,_  John wanted to say, but the noise that left his lips was more like: "Hrrrnghh."

"John!" Instantly, there was a warm hand clasped around his own. "Don't speak. You've been severely injured."

"Quite," Mycroft said tightly, all trace of humanity wiped from his voice.

John turned his hand so that he and Sherlock's palms were pressed together and ran his thumbs carefully over Sherlock's knuckles. He remembered, now, why he was in hospital. He could survive a bullet, he knew, but John would never have survived Sherlock's death, not again. Never again.

Mycroft cleared his throat and said, somewhat stuffily, "I need to speak with Doctor Watson's team. I'm having him moved to a private suite as soon as they're able."

Sherlock didn't say anything, just tightened his grip on John's hand as Mycroft's shoes clicked against the tile and down the hall. John felt strange, distantly aware that he was in a great deal of pain but unable to feel any of it. He realized he must be on a morphine drip or something like it. His brain was still too muzzy to be sure, and he hardly cared. Sherlock's hand felt good in his, like it belonged there, and he fell asleep still tracing Sherlock's knuckles slowly with his thumb.

x

When John woke up again he was able to open his eyes and look around blearily, though his throat still begged for water. Sherlock was sitting the wrong way in a chair beside his bed, his long legs draped over one armrest while his back was supported by the other. He was flipping through one of John's medical periodicals carelessly, his foot twitching. John noticed the peaky, drawn look on his face and the loose fit of his clothes with displeasure.

"You look awful," John managed, hoarsely.

Sherlock swiveled around, eyes wide, the magazine forgotten and dropped hastily on the floor. He searched John's face for a moment and then said, with a small smile, "Speak for yourself."

John laughed (which  _hurt_ , intensely) and cleared his throat. His voice was still gruff as he said, softly, "Water?"

In a flash Sherlock was tipping a pink plastic hospital cup to John's lips. The water felt amazing going down his throat, cool and blissful, but it hurt to swallow, hurt to have it down in his belly. Everything hurt. "What happened?" John groaned, leaning back against the pillow and screwing his eyes up against the pain.

"Do you remember killing Sebastian Moran?" Sherlock's voice was steady, but John thought he could hear something like nervousness running through it. He nodded, slowly. The memory hurt, but yes: he did remember. "And you remember…being shot?" Again, John nodded. Sherlock sighed and took his hand again, more carefully this time, though, as if he expected John to pull it away at any moment. "I put you at unnecessary risk by concealing some truths from you, John, and I will understand if you decide to sever your ties with me after today."

"Sherlock-"

"Let me finish before you announce something you may well come to regret," Sherlock snapped, and John looked at him worriedly. Sherlock really did look dreadful, his skin so pale and his hair limp, unwashed. Had he been in hospital beside John all this time? (And how long was "all this time" anyway? A few days? A month?) "I told you that our plan was to fool Moran, to make him believe that the trigger had worked. That was never my plan. I fully expected to face you as an adversary, and to possibly injure you if required. I wouldn't have killed you," he said quickly, "couldn't have done…but I knew, before I sent you into that pub, that Moran would have full control of you the next time we met."

John swallowed, his throat still too dry. "Sherlock. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because…because I needed to see. What he had done to you. What he was planning to do." Sherlock shook his head, angrily. "I had to  _know._ " Suddenly, Sherlock yanked his hand away and ran it through his greasy hair listlessly. "But I was wrong, fundamentally wrong, about Moran's plans. I knew he was going to use you against me, of course, but I thought…" Bitterly, he said, "I thought he would have you harm me, physically. I never once considered that he would make you harm yourself."

"I…I don't remember…" John shook his head, trying to claw through the memories that seemed to be hiding in a dense fog in his mind. He remembered meeting Seb at the pub. He remembered the needle. After that, things were vague. Seb kissing him, dressing him in a suit. The wind. Music, something fun and catchy from the seventies. The heft of the gun in his hand. Laughter; anger; not a trace of fear. "What did I…"

Sherlock took his hand again. "It doesn't matter, John. It's over." But his eyes looked haunted, far away, and John knew that whatever he'd done it had been horrifying for Sherlock to watch. Sherlock seemed to come back to himself all at once, his sad eyes focusing on John's. "I need…I need to apologize. For…for this." He gestured at John's stomach and John glanced down, for the first time, at the thick bandages that pressed up under his hospital gown.

"Don't ever apologize for that," John said fiercely, meeting Sherlock's eyes again. "That was my choice, not yours."

Sherlock seemed, to John's great astonishment, wildly angry at this pronouncement. "It should never have come to that!" he shouted, leaping up from his chair and pacing the room. John hadn't seen him so wound up since the incident at the pool, after he'd torn the Semtex vest from John's body and flung it away. "Mycroft's team was supposed to be in place. I was to secure your safety, get all the information I could from Moran, and then stand aside. But they were  _late_ and you had that gun in your  _mouth_  and-"

"Jesus." John sat up a little, wincing and gasping as he did it, and Sherlock was immediately at his side, touching him, whispering for him to lie still, not to hurt himself. "Sherlock, I'm okay," John said softly.

"You're not." Sherlock slumped back into his seat. "I couldn't catch my breath. That was it. You and Sebastian were on top of me, and I couldn't catch my breath. I heard the helicopter and I thought we were safe and I…John, I was so stupid. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Sherlock, Christ, it's okay," John mumbled, pulling Sherlock to him even though it hurt desperately, tugging at the wounds on his stomach and shifting the IV in his arm. "I'm okay, see?" Sherlock's head was on his chest, his body halfway on the hospital bed, and John stroked his hair gently. "Hey," he said softly, so that Sherlock looked up at him, "we're all right. Both of us. It's going to be okay."

"If you had died…" Sherlock whispered, and John swallowed hard, his eyes burning a little as he whispered back: "I know. I thought the same thing about you. I know." For a long moment they were quiet, Sherlock shifting so that he could stretch his full length out beside John on the narrow hospital bed. When John realised Sherlock was asleep, he smiled and laid his head back against the pillow, listening to Sherlock's slow breaths until he drifted off himself.


	15. Chapter 15

John was in hospital for three excruciatingly long months. The first one he had spent mostly unconscious (and when he questioned Sherlock, who had apparently almost never left his side, about this first month, all Sherlock said was, "I caught up on my reading. You slept a lot. Nothing more to say.") but the last two seemed to drag agonizingly by. The reduction in his pain medication didn't help; the drugs might have lessened, but the pain certainly didn't.

It was nice, though, having visitors. Harry came by, twice: once, sober and bearing flowers; once, drunk and rambling about a girl she thought she might have loved once. But more interesting were Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade- faces he didn't think he'd ever see again (admittedly of his own volition, because they were too painful to see) and that he hadn't realised he sorely missed. Apparently Sherlock had contacted Lestrade (Molly and Mrs. Hudson already being in the know) about his…well, being alive…and Lestrade hadn't taken it well ("I suspect he had a book handy of various curse words and their best employment," Sherlock had said) but he still wanted to see John.

Mrs. Hudson's visit, though, was the most illuminating. "That Sherlock," she'd simpered, touching John's arm. "Just when you think he's the most beastly, awful…well, you know. Then he does something like this." She'd waved and John's stomach and sighed, "It's a good thing he was a match, you know. My poor aunt waited a whole year for her new liver." When John had shot a questioning glance at Sherlock, the man shrugged sheepishly and yawned, "I might have given you one of my kidneys," and it was all John could do not to hug and pummel the bastard at the same time. And then of course, Mrs. Hudson had gone on: "And now you're coming back to Baker Street! Oh, it'll be so nice, having my boys home again!" And Sherlock had looked even more sheepish and mumbled, "Right, yes, I might have also sold your flat," and then John  _had_ hugged him and given him a gentle punch on the arm (he couldn't manage more than that) at the same time.

Mycroft visited regularly, though he never said much, just hovered around at the end of the bed looking bored and guilty in equal turns. John wasn't sure what to make of that.

But the visitor John liked best, of course, was Sherlock. Despite the nurses' wishes, Sherlock slept beside John in his little hospital bed each night, his head on John's chest and their hands entwined. They didn't talk about what it meant, but they didn't really have to. Some things don't need to be said.

x

John couldn't have been more ecstatic to leave the hospital and go home, really go home, back to Baker Street…that is, until he was confronted with a flight of stairs for the first time since the shooting. By the time he got into the flat he was well winded and shaking a little, and he was very glad for the gentle arm that looped around his waist and led him to the sofa.

"Do you need your medication, John?" Sherlock asked worriedly.

"No, no," John winced, though in all honesty he really did. Sherlock saw through his bluster and brought him a glass of water and two small, yellowish tablets, which John swallowed quickly. Sherlock stayed crouched beside him, pushing his hair back from his face, and John smiled at him. "It's all right, Sherlock. You don't have to watch me like I'm going to break at any moment."

"You're already broken, remember?" Sherlock whispered seriously. "And I promised I would fix you."

"Sherlock-" Whatever John was going to say next stopped in his throat as Sherlock's lips met his, carefully kissing him breathless. John leaned up, ignoring the pain, and tried to draw Sherlock down, to deepen the kiss…

…but Sherlock broke away, his pupils wide and cheeks flushed. "No, John."

"Sherlock," John panted, but Sherlock shook his head.

"No. This is how I'm going to fix you." He kissed him again, slowly, gently, and it took all of John's willpower not to leap up and press Sherlock against the wall, to ravish him and to make it rough. When Sherlock pulled away again, John almost made to follow him and had to stop himself, lying back against the sofa with his eyes closed. "What he did to you," Sherlock murmured softly, "we won't do that." Sounding more like himself, he added, "A conditioned response will fade if it isn't rewarded. I'll recondition you. And one day this," he kissed John again, his lips soft and quick against John's mouth, "won't make you do this." He touched John's hand, which was clenched so hard his knuckles were white. John hadn't even realised he'd been making a fist and loosed his hand, his throat tight with something that felt like shame.

"I can't…I don't mean to…" he stammered, and Sherlock kissed him again, just as sweet and careful as before.

"It's okay, John." He pressed his lips to John's forehead and stood, setting his hands on his hips. "I'm going to fix you."

John smiled despite himself. Sherlock sounded so resolute, it was almost like the man was on a case. John remembered thinking before that he'd call this The Case of John Watson's Twisted Libido. Looking at Sherlock now, he thought he'd amend that. If he could ever bring himself to write about this on his blog (and he wasn't sure he could) he'd call it "The Case of the Broken Toy Soldier". And it would have a happen ending, because Sherlock was on the case.

If anyone could fix John Watson, it was Sherlock Holmes.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a soldier, doctor, gay man, psychologist, government official, or genius...so please consider everything in this fic with a skeptical eye.


End file.
